


Dark Paradise

by Withstarryeyes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Derek Has Feelings, Derek-centric, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Mystery, Panic Attacks, Pining Derek, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Stiles-centric, Werewolf Derek, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 15:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11694522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Withstarryeyes/pseuds/Withstarryeyes
Summary: There’s frantic pounding on his front door and Derek growls, getting out of his bed and creeping about, listening to the heartbeat on the porch. He feels himself calm, his fangs and claws retreating, when he picks up that it’s Stiles. It’s always Stiles.OR...The one where  Stiles' Dad goes missing  and he has nowhere to go. Scott's on vacation, his home is a crime scene, but... Derek might be the one person he can trust.





	Dark Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was a beast to write. I've never written such a long fic in one sitting before. Usually I'll do chapters that snowball over months into something this big but I wanted to challenge myself. 3 days and almost 6k later, it was done. It's un-beta'd so I'm sorry if there are some mistakes, I am human, but overall I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  
  


**Chapter 1**

There’s frantic pounding on his front door and Derek growls, getting out of his bed and creeping about, listening to the heartbeat on the porch. He feels himself calm, his fangs and claws retreating, when he picks up that it’s Stiles. It’s always Stiles. 

Derek yanks the door open as Stiles goes in for a knock, the young teen swinging forward, barely managing to catch himself on the doorframe before he ends up sprawled at Derek’s feet. 

“You knocked?” Derek grunts as Stiles takes a few beats to answer. He’s panting heavily and Derek turns his ears back onto his heartbeat. It’s fast, pounding and thick against his chest and Derek whimpers, gripping Stiles’ arm. 

“I-” Stiles starts, realizing how dumb he must look. Frantic and scared and pounding on Derek’s door because there’s nowhere else to go. A light pink blush spreads up, under Stiles’ moles and over his cheeks and neck. Even his ears are watercolor rose. 

Derek scowls at how  _ wrong _ his Stiles feels,  at how wrong the heartbeat sounds, at how wrong this embarrassed, flustered idiot is. He stomps into his house and Stiles mumbles against the door, knocking his forehead against it once, twice, three times before moving in and shutting it. He returns with two cups of tea, one earl grey and one a hibiscus blackberry, with milk and sugar in his and sugar (lots, more than any human should be able to consume) in Stiles’. They sit on the couch, and Derek winces because the heartbeat has not slowed down, not since the pounding, not since the invitation and Derek scoots a little closer so he can throw an arm around the teen’s shoulders. The heartbeat picks up pace and Derek feels his claws come out, barely nipping at the nape of Stiles’ neck. 

“I, uh, thanks,” Stiles motions to the fruity, hot beverage and takes a sip, curling into Derek’s comforting arm. It’s not uncommon for this to happen, for Derek and him to hang out, alone, in Derek’s house. It’s not uncommon for Stiles to feel like he can’t catch his breath around the wolf, to feel nervous and anxious and on the brink of  _ something _ . But this time, it’s different, because Stiles has come for a very different reason. 

Derek nods in acknowledgement, limbs tense around Stiles and anxious expectation. Stiles doesn’t act like this. He’s always talking, bouncing, spitting ideas out of his mouth and ears and body. Right now he’s glumly staring out the window, his eyes a little bit glazed, he’s far far away and Derek wants to draw him in on a fishing line, get him to talk but he knows this mood. Stiles is skittish right now, skirting around a realization, a confession on his lips that Derek can’t yank out. Not if he doesn’t want to hurt Stiles in the process. 

So they sit and the tea gets cold and the sun sets and never, not once, does Stiles’ heartbeat slow in Derek’s ears. They order a pizza and flick on the tv but both of them are tense as Kim Kardashian whines to her bratty sisters and flings her money around. 

They demolish the pizza, glad to do anything with their mouths and hands that doesn’t involve pretending that they’re quiet for the sake of the show and not that they have things they don’t want to say. Derek melts into the grease on the cheese and hums happily, his arms protest when they finally go slack, sore and abused from their stiff post on Stiles’ shoulders. 

It’s nearing midnight when Stiles gets up, collects his keys and tries to leave. 

“Stiles,” Derek grabs his hand and, despite his best efforts, his eyes glow red. He’s frustrated and the hours he’s spent waiting are not going to end in Stiles leaving him, alone and confused and _ worried, _ without any indication as to _ why _ he should be worried.  

The boy stiffens from the grab and Derek lets go, crossing his arms across his chest and looks at Stiles expectantly. The words catch in his throat, tangle around his teeth, settle in his gums as he tries to explain, whatever he just did. 

But the thing is that Stiles doesn’t want to explain, he doesn’t want to talk about it, he doesn’t want to do anything but pretend it’s not there and move on. But… he just spent six hours with Derek. Six hours of uncomfortable silence where Derek respected him and his boundaries. Six hours where Derek knew something was off but didn’t prod him.

Stiles wants, more than anything, to say why he came but instead what comes out is  a small, dejected, “Can I stay here for the night?”

Derek’s face falls but he nods and goes upstairs, Stiles trailing him like a lost puppy. There’s not many structurally intact rooms in the charred house. There’s the living room and the stairs that, beside a creak here and there, don’t threaten to send you barrelling down one story to the thick, harsh concrete beneath. There’s Derek’s bedroom, and the little gym he’s put up with a few weights and a small shower. There’s the bathroom and one bedroom whose door is permanently closed but Stiles has sworn he’s heard footsteps from.

They’re headed towards Derek’s room, the slick scent of leather getting closer when he turns abruptly and Stiles sees the forbidden room for the first time. 

There’s a vanity in here, a small, white dresser with Ivy painted on the sides, and a rug underneath a gothic, velvet, black, queen-sized bed. The curtains are a gold shimmer silk and there’s a chandelier on the ceiling. It smells like roses and leather and perfume. His stomach sinks when he sees the charm wrapped around the doorknob, two victorian calligraphy letters:  _ LH.  _

This is Laura’s… was Laura’s room and Derek… Stiles turns to the wolf who has his eyes fixated on Stiles’ head. 

“You trust me to…” Stiles trails off, not knowing how to finish that sentence without being rude. It’s too late though because Derek flinches and takes hasty steps back to get out of the room, plastering on a wild smile and nodding like a maniac. 

“It’s all yours,” and if Derek’s voice wobbles, he doesn’t seem to care before he vaults down the hallway and slams his own room closed. Stiles sighs, what is he doing? What is he thinking?

Sleep doesn’t come to Stiles at any point in the night. He watches airplanes pass in the distance, their lights glowing among the stars as they glide through the sky, going somewhere more pleasant than Beacon Hills. His eyes droop, Stiles yawns, and, without his consent, his eyes shut. 

_ “Dad?” Stiles calls as he opens the door to his house. Their tables are knocked over, the living room light shattered into glass. There’s blood on the door knob and Stiles gulps, slamming a hand down onto the table where they keep their keys to breathe the coating blanket of panic away. He moves down the hallway in a zombie march, wetness to his eyes,  _

_ Everything is unsaturated, like a sick horror movie and Stiles footsteps are the only indication of life. He peers into the kitchen, all of the dishes are splattered on the ground, shards forming a sea of jagged edges. There’s chairs with their legs broken off and the corner of the table is dripping something red. He gulps, heart thudding.  _

_ The living room is the same, couch turned over, carpet messed up. Red stains echoing along the walls and the fabric like calls of a forgotten ghost. There’s nobody here, and that’s what scares Stiles because as he takes out his phone, he sees the text his Dad sent him just 30 minutes ago.  _

**_Please run by the store, we need orange juice. Also stop drinking out of the carton! I don’t like to come home to find your teeth marks wetting the cardboard._ **

_ Today may be the day that Stiles is truly an orphan.  _

He’s crying when he wakes up, the tears betraying him and finally falling in thick sheets. He made it six hours with his chest burning, the thick acidic taste of them in his throat, the mind-numbing aching of his heart taking over his thoughts for six hours. But he didn’t cry, not once. Stiles hasn’t cried since he watched his Mom die, more a shell than a person, in a hospital gown years ago. He hasn’t cried since the light went out in the most important person in his life. 

But he’s crying today and it’s not helping his panic. It doesn’t help the small, lonely feeling that’s numbing his body. He’s alone. Stiles is alone. He no longer has a family. 

He curls into his blanket, weeping and twisting the soft fabric into his hands. He cries until he has nothing left and then he gets up to shower in the gym, a static washing over him. He’s hollow. He’s nothing more than a shell, maybe he’ll just waste away like his Mom did, maybe he’ll vanish like his Dad. The only thing Stiles knows is that he doesn’t want to live like this.

Not without a family. 

He hears Derek get out of his bed, the heavy thud of his body against the wood floor, hears him make his way downstairs. He can hear the shower running, Stiles is sure, but he doesn’t call out to him as he passes the room. 

_ Derek _ , his breath catches in his throat and he shakes his head. He doesn’t want to live like this, but Stiles needs to. He needs to cling on because Scott and Derek and hell, the whole pack, they need him. They need to not lose another person. Maybe Derek can help Stiles cope. Maybe they can brood together. 

Stiles towels off after the shower, getting dressed and going downstairs. He smiles at Derek’s bed head, his hands curled around a cup of coffee, but another voice shakes him to his core. 

“Stiles, we need to talk to you about your father’s disappearance,” his dad’s partner says. Stiles feels a shiver go down his spine. 

“Of course,” he whispers, catching the look of pity and betrayal on Derek’s face. He needs to fix this, he needs to find his Dad and he needs to _ fix _ this. 

Because his heart cannot handle losing two people he loves. It’ll shatter and Stiles… he’ll be a disappointment to both his parents. He can’t let that happen. He  _ won’t _ let that happen. 

**Chapter 2**

The handcuffs feel foreign on Stiles’ arms as they ride to the station. It’s not the first time he’s been in the back of a cop car, looking through the metal bars, bored. But most of the time he can see his Dad in the driver’s seat, most of the time they’re joking over music and eventually Stiles moves up to the front seat, promising not to do anything dumb. 

This time, though, he has the uncomfortable pinch of metal around his wrists and the deathly silence of guilt permeating throughout the car. Stiles for not reporting his Dad missing, the deputy for arresting the son of his best friend. It’s thick and cloying and Stiles wants to shake it off but it clings like tar and rolls down his throat and makes him feel sick. He is sick, he didn’t do anything when he found the blood and his house like that. He just drove to Derek’s and acted like a freak. 

Maybe this guilt that Stiles feels will get him convicted, maybe he’ll go down, depressed and alone, for the disappearance of his Dad. Maybe they’ll never find him and the only person that will know he’s innocent is himself. Maybe he can find solace in that, maybe not, maybe it won’t come to that. 

It’s uncertainty at it’s finest and it makes Stiles’ stomach roll. They pull up to the station, the deputy shutting the engine off. He opens the door and gently pulls him out. They look at each other, unrecognizable in each other’s eyes. Stiles has always been a good kid, but now? Now he looks like a criminal, looks like a killer and it doesn’t fit him. Noah’s partner has always been bold and brazen, now he avoid Stiles’ eyes like he’ll turn to stone at the sight. They’re uneasy and unbalanced and impressions aren’t holding up. 

It’s awkward at best as they roll into the station. Stiles has his fingerprints taken, he’s escorted into an interrogation room where the lights make his eyes hurt and his body sweat. He’s nervous and anxious and breaking all over again. 

His dad is gone. It’s real. Stiles can’t run from the truth anymore. 

The door slams open, Stiles flinches and curls in on himself. There’s nowhere to hide in his metal chair. 

“Mr. Stilinski,” Noah’s boss says cooly. It’s a shot below the belt  and they both know it, Stiles curling further back as the captain sits in the metal chair across from Stiles. Time goes on as they stare at each other. 

“So what happens here, do I talk, do you talk?” Stiles quips, the look on the captains face is less than amused. 

“I want you to tell me why you didn’t report your house in the state it was in and instead retreated to the Hale residence.” Stiles squirms, dropping his attention to his hands. His heart sinks and for a brief moment he considers lying, but he knows it’ll only make things worse. 

“I was in denial,” his voice cracks, “I didn’t want to face that my dad was gone so I ran.”

There’s a scoff behind the one way glass but when Stiles looks up, his chin wobbling and his face crumpled, there must be something genuine because the captain leans in and puts his hand on his arm. 

“I believe you. We’re going to let you go, but next time be sure to report any crimes you see.”

Stiles nods, the guilt still mucking up his throat. He tries to blink back the tears but a few treasonous one make their way down his cheeks, staining his skin red in their path. They leave him be, ditching in the small room that inexplicably smells exactly like his dad. Like ink and metal and old, dirty coffee. It takes him a few moments to collect himself, long enough that there’s not an officer in sight as he leaves the room. He passes a few deputies that he knows and nods a greeting to them, trying to pretend that nobody can see his tear tracks. He’s nipping at his lip when he halts at the door. 

He doesn’t have a car. He doesn’t have a way home and… Stiles bangs his head against his hand. He doesn’t have a home to go to. Except Derek’s. He swallows harshly, glancing up at the moon and remembers the look on Derek’s face when he was carted off. It was the look of someone who thought he was guilty, who thought Stiles killed his own family. Derek had seen that despicable action before and he wouldn’t pick up Stiles from the station. 

He checks the time, it’s only 4 in the afternoon and the sun is high. It’ll only take him an hour to get to Derek’s. 

Stiles is gonna kill Scott for going on vacation the only week he’s ever needed him. 

His feet hurt when he winds back up on Derek’s porch. He doesn’t try knocking, he knows Derek can smell him and hear him and feel him. His presence is like a fingerprint, poking at all of Derek’s sore spots. 

“Derek, please,” He calls and puts his head on the door, fighting back tears, “let me explain.” He must sound absolutely pitiful because the door is yanked out from underneath his head and he’s laying at Derek’s feet the same place he avoided the night before. At least he’s being let in. Even if Derek’s face is pinched and he’s growling softly, walking away before Stiles can drag himself upright. He brushes the dust and dirt off his shirt before following the wolf inside. 

Glass shatters behind his head as he’s vaulted into the window, Derek’s eyes blood red. He’s murderous. “Talk!” He yells and Stiles tries to scramble back into the wall, braining himself on a shard of glass. Blood is pumping down the back of his sweatshirt. 

“I-I don’t know where to start,” Stiles pleads because his brain is nowhere to be found and he’s hurt and he’s confused and he  _ doesn’t _ know where to start. He doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t want to speak it into being. 

He’s just been investigated in the disappearance of his father because it is real and Stiles, well he has to face it. 

Stiles sighs, “My dad, he’s missing.” Derek’s face doesn’t get any less Alpha-y. Stiles keeps talking, “I walked into my house yesterday and it was torn apart. I don’t mean a few pillows messed up, I’m talking Todo we’re not in Kansas anymore messed-up. T-there was blood on the counters and the cabinets and,” he gulps, starring Derek in the eyes and whispering, horrified, “on the corner of the table. “

Derek lets him go, letting him fall to the ground in a heap. 

“How do I know you didn’t kill him?” Derek asks as he turns away. His breathing has gotten less hefty. 

“Listen to my heartbeat and tell me if I’m lying,” Stiles mutters in a dead tone, “My dad is missing, I’m all alone in this world and I can’t even help the police because I didn’t kill him but I don’t know who would. How about that Sourwolf,” he lets out a sickening laugh that has more bitterness than sweetness, “I’m so pathetic I can’t even help find my own Father.”

He’s crying again.  _ Damn it, damn it all to hell.  _ Stilinskis aren’t like this. They don’t cry, they don’t break down, they live on and if it’s more on alcohol than will well who would blame them. Stiles is pathetic and weak and he hates himself. 

Stiles doesn’t realize he’s curled up into a ball until Derek is forcing him to straighten out, plopping him on the couch and placing a blanket over his legs. “You’re not pathetic, Stiles.” Derek whispers and then he’s gone.  _ Everyone leaves me.  _

He feels silly when a few moments later Derek is handing him a bowl of pasta and soup, something old and Italian and homemade. “You can cook?”

He shrugs, bashful, “My mom taught me.”

It’s not much. It’s not like Derek’s told him a fond story of his family but Stiles feels his chest warm up. Derek doesn’t talk about his family, ever. He trusts Stiles enough to break that pattern. 

The soup is good, the spices and herbs warming him up from his feet up to his head. His eyes grow heavy and it’s only then does Stiles realize how tired he is. He hasn’t slept in a day and he’s cried more than the liquid he has in his body. He’s sore and this couch is so comfy and Derek is so warm… His eyes shut without his permission. 

He feels arms around him, tight and comforting, and he rubs his cheek into something cotton as he drifts off. It feels nice. 

**Chapter 3**

When he wakes in the morning he’s alone, a cold feeling against his cheek and chest. Derek’s in the kitchen, he can smell bacon and eggs and toast. 

He swipes a hand across his chin, rubbing off the drool stains before padding to meet Derek. He’s got his shirt off as he cooks the bacon, a pair of grey sweatpants that go down to his ankles and show bare, greasy feet.  _ Swoop _ . Derek’s turns a little at the increased heart rate and Stiles gulps, plucking a piece of bacon from a plate. 

“You’re up too early,” Derek pouts and Stiles smiles up at him, batting his eyes. 

“You’re cooking for me,” he accuses, Derek ducks his head, a light blush across his cheeks. 

“I’m cooking because I’m hungry,” he defends but neither of them believe it. 

Derek plates the meal, sliding cheesy scrambled eggs onto a pale pink platter, handing it over and Stiles manhandles a few more pieces of bacon before sitting at the kitchen table. His stomach growls, “chill, I’m feeding you,” Stiles mumbles back and digs in. 

“So I was thinking,” Derek starts and Stiles looks up, chewing eggs and humming happily. “We could go out looking for your Dad, check out your house.”

He chokes on the eggs, coughing them up and Derek’s there in a flash patting his back. 

“Jesus, breathe.”

He takes a full breath, then another and takes a sip of water. “I- I don’t want to do that.” 

Derek’s eyebrows go up in confusion. “But?” he starts, seeing the look on Stiles’ face and stopping. “What’s wrong?”

“Derek, we  _ always  _ mess things up when we investigate. We ruin the evidence and lie to people’s faces and find the wrong guy.”

Derek’s heart falls. Stiles isn’t wrong but he just wants to help because seeing Stiles so broken, so lost, it breaks Derek’s heart. He wanted to make Stiles whole, make him happy again. It’s been too long since he’s seen him smile. 

“This is my Dad, I… don’t have anyone left,” Stiles confesses and Derek nods in understanding. 

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Stiles looks too relieved for comfort and Derek washes the dishes as Stiles retreats upstairs, a far away look in his eyes and the hem of his shirt fraying from where Stiles was picking at it. 

He’s got a spattering of movies across all genres by the TV when Stiles returns. He’s still in his pajamas, a pair of maroon sweatpants and a lacrosse t-shirt that hugs the muscles in his arms. He slides a beanie over his hair and Derek swoons at tufts that poke out. He curls up on the couch next to Derek, their thighs touching and Derek leans to put their shoulder together. 

“Did you rob a Blockbuster?” Stiles gasps, picking up  _ Die Hard _ and  _ Magic Mike _ , running his fingers over the cover of  _ The Princess Bride.  _

Derek blushes, “My family… we used to watch a lot of movies.” Stiles eyes harden and he swallows thickly. Derek kicks himself for ruining the glee in Stiles’ eyes, the momentary happiness that has now fled. 

The microwave beeps and Stiles flinches at the noise, chuckling and mentions how he’s a little jumpy. Little is an understatement. 

“Pick out whatever one you want to start with,” Derek mentions before gathering the popcorn from the microwave and placing it into a bucket. He grabs a couple cokes from the fridge and nabs the red vines from the counter before returning. Stiles is worrying his lip with his teeth and Derek aches to stop him with a thumb on those precious, plump, lips of his. 

He’s not quiet enough, Stiles glancing up as he reenters. He flushes when he smiles wide at the red vines. “Decide yet?”

“What?” Stiles asks, taking a couple of the sweets from the package, “Oh, yeah I put it in the DVD player already.”

Derek presses play and has to cover a laugh as the opening scene to  _ Legally Blonde  _ starts.

“Too girly for the masculine wolf-y wolf?” Stiles jokes and Derek flashes his teeth sarcastically. 

“Nah, it’s perfect.” Stiles scoffs and Derek shoves a handful of popcorn in his face, “Less noise more watching.”

“Didn’t know you were so serious about movies, Derek,” Stiles teases but shuts up. 

They tangle together more as the movie progresses, at first Stiles lays his head on Derek’s shoulder but by the end of the movie he’s fully in Derek’s lap, Derek petting the tufts of hair sticking out. The credits roll and Stiles goes to move but Derek puts a hand on his chest.

“Don’t you’re comfy.”

“But someone has to change the disc.”

Derek pulls Stiles up real quick by his shoulders, tugging over a body pillow and settling him down on that before going to the stacks of movies. 

“What next?” Derek asks. Stiles doesn’t respond. He looks up, expecting to see Stiles mourning, tense or lost or anything in between. But he’s as comfortable as he left him and smiling up at Derek. He sighs happily and wraps a hand around Stiles’ arm. “What’re you thinking about?”

“Just…” he sits up and Derek wants to tell him to lay back down but the moment is gone, like headlights from a turning truck in the rear view mirror. “You’re too nice to me.”

“Nice? That’s not the first word I’d use to describe myself.”

“But you are Derek. You took me in… you let me watch  _ Legally Blonde. _ ” The words don’t land with Derek, his mouth twists up in a grimace and Stiles lets it go. “ _ Princess Bride _ next.”

He puts it in. They finish it off, curled up by each other. And then they watch another movie and another. They bounce around from comedies to dramas to action. Superheroes learning how not to blow things up, amnesiac wives relearning to love their husbands, a kid chasing away a few burglars from his home when his parents aren’t there. And through it all they remain together.

The credits roll on the last one, Stiles is barely awake, half dozing and mumbling at Derek about how good it was. Derek thinks about kissing Stiles, lazy and soft and tasting like buttered popcorn but he doesn’t want to disturb him and he’s not sure Stiles is ready for that. He’s not sure he’s ready for that. 

He likes Stiles, he really likes Stiles and spending these past few days have solidified that. Sleepy Stiles, hungry Stiles, movie Stiles. They’re all Stiles that Derek wants to live with, wants to kiss and date and mate. He wants Stiles with all his heart. He wants this. But…

A flash of lightning crosses the sky and Stiles bolts up, eyes frantic as they hear sheets of rain pelting down on the roof. 

“Stiles it’s okay, I’ve waterproofed the roof,” Derek soothes but Stiles doesn’t lay back down. He’s rigid and breathing heavy. His beautiful amber eyes are wide, his porcelain hands constricting Derek’s biceps. 

“It’s raining,” he cries. 

“Stiles, Stiles!” he snaps and the teen looks at him, like he’s so small in the wake of Derek. “What’s wrong?”

“There were footprints, outside of my house. What if there were fibers too? It’s gonna wash away all of the evidence, we’re never going to find my dad!” He’s breathing too rapidly and his face has gone pale. Derek doesn’t need to listen to his heartbeat or smell the acrid scent of fear and sweat to know Stiles is in the throes of a panic attack.  

“Stiles,”  _ repeat his name, ground him, give him space,  _ he scoots a little further away and immediately Stiles is breathing lighter, “your Dad’s been missing for a day now.”

Tears pour down Stiles’ cheeks at the same ferocity of the rain, “They’ve collected all the evidence. The rain will ruin nothing.” Stiles nods, seemingly hearing him, and winds down. It takes a long time, they always do, to run it’s course. His breathing improves first, then the tears stop and Stiles wills his limbs to stop shaking. 

“What if they don’t find my Dad?” he asks after it’s all done and Stiles feels naked to his bones. What’s a little confession going to cost him? “What if I’m all alone?”

“They will. You’ll never be alone, anyway. You’ll always have me.” 

Placing a hand on Stiles’ cheek, he ducks to look into his eyes. 

“How do you know that?” 

He’s ready. He knows he’s ready at that painful, pitiful sentence. He’s ready and Stiles is ready and he just needs to break the ice. So Derek swoops in and kisses him. It’s soft and delicate and just enough to convince Stiles he’s wanted, now and always. 

“Oh,” he breathes when they break apart. 

“Oh,” Derek repeats back before Stiles pulls him in again. 

They push against each other like wind on the sea, panting and kissing and breathing and falling in love. There’s no way not to with them. They were meant for each other, Derek’s never been so sure of something in his life. 

And when they finally break free it’s not of their own volition, even though they’re both a little oxygen deprived and too too giddy, it’s to the doorbell. 

Stiles whines when Derek gets up but he’s joking _ mostly _ . Derek swings open the door, the wind pushing the rain in, and flicks on the outdoor lights. There’s a ghost on his porch, pale and beaten and looking like he’s lost a few pounds but he’s unmistakable. On his doorstep, soaking wet is Noah Stilinski. 

**Chapter 4**

 

Derek pulls him in and calls for Stiles. He comes running, “What, needed a little more of me?’ Stiles is happy right now, giddy. One look of his Dad and Stiles skids right into guilt, Derek can _ feel _ the crash. 

“Stiles, it’s nice to see you.”

“Dad,” Stiles yells, pulling him in for a hug. 

_ How could I spend time here, happy, when my Dad was lost? _

They pull apart and Stiles can see the shivers racking his Dad’s body. 

“We, uh, Dad, Dad?”

He waits for his Dad to focus on him, “we need to get you to a hospital. Derek can drive you, I need to go talk to the police.” 

Noah nods, “say hi to the boys for me,” and follows Derek to his Camero. 

The drive to the police station is filled with static. Stiles doesn’t know how to feel. He’s guilty. Guilty of having fun, of forgetting, that his whole life was crumbling around him. He forgot for one blissful afternoon that his Dad wasn’t with him. He _ forgot _ . 

And was it for Derek? Sure. It was for Derek's kind eyes and soft soul, it was for his sanity and comfort and it felt so so right. But… he could’ve had better timing. 

He brains himself on the steering wheel, “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.” 

Because he is, and how could he not be when a few movies and a couple of nights with Derek erased 17 years of his Dad and him? He didn’t need to choose between his Dad and Derek, at this point he wouldn’t. But he needs to apologize because the guilt he feels settles like a building on his chest. 

He’s breathless as he enters the station, there’s only a few lights on with how early it is in the morning. But the Captain is there and a tiny selection of deputies and secretaries. Stiles walks right into the man’s office. 

“Stiles?” The captain asks, concerned. Stiles realizes he must look wild. He’s violently shaking and his eyes are red, he’s soaking wet from the rain and yet, despite it all, he has the smallest, warmest, smile on his pale, pale face. 

“My Dad, he’s home.”

They hug, the Captain celebrating in loud whoops and harsh claps on the small of Stiles’ back. 

“Where is he?”

Stiles’ smile fades, just a little, “Derek, he uh, took him to the hospital. He looked a little beat-up. I don’t want to miss anything.”

They drive together in a police car, Stiles in the front this time, warm and dry and coated in one of his father’s oversized jackets. He picked a few up from the office. 

They’re still in the ER when Stiles arrives, a tiny blue cubicle separating his Dad from the rest. He’s still wet and shaking, a thick black ring over his eye. It looks like his Dad got into a fight and lost, which, Stiles supposes is exactly what happened. 

“Noah, it’s good to see you back.”

“Captain, it’s good to be back,” Noah replies, they share a warm look between each other, brotherly kinship, before Stiles gets shooed out so that the Captain can get a statement. 

Derek wraps an arm around Stiles, dragging him to a hospital chair and placing Stiles on his lap. 

“You okay?”

Stiles fiddles with the hem of Derek’s henley. He shrugs. Derek’s heart shatters. 

“What are they saying?” Stiles asks, and leans his head down on Derek’s sternum, he hums at the soothing heartbeat. 

“Uh,” Derek tunes in, there’s a lot of technical talk but he maneuvers around that, picking the good pieces, “A couple of kids from your high school, they’ve graduated already, they knew that uh, you and your Dad were close. They took him for ransom as a group of 5 but only left one to watch him at the house. He’s too good for that, he escaped and has the names of all the kids.”

“So they’ll catch them?” The hope in Stiles’ voice is small but mighty and Derek places a kiss on the crown of his head.

“They’ll catch them.”

The curtain is thrown back, the Captain wishing a soft goodbye, and Derek disappears into the depths to find some hot coffee. 

“Have they looked you over yet?” He avoids his Dad’s eyes. 

“Yeah, I’m fine other than some bruising.” Stiles’ chin wobbles. His Dad sighs. “Come here, kid.”

Stiles crawls up on the bed, pushing down shame and embarrassment because it’s his Dad and it’s all he has left and who the hell would blame him for curling up on his ol’ man’s chest and crying his eyes out. 

“I didn’t know if you’d be okay.”

“I am okay,” his father replies and strokes his back. 

“Barely,” Stiles scoffs and pokes lightly at the bruise on Noah’s cheekbone. 

“‘Tis but a scratch.”

“Don’t quote Monty Python at me Dad,” he whines but can’t keep the smile out of his voice. “ I hope you know this means I’m never moving out, ever.” His Dad just laughs. 

“Oh come on, in a couple of years you and Derek will get a house. I’ll just visit.” He stills, gulping. 

“Y-you know that Derek and I?”

“Are a thing? Stiles, I’m not blind. You stayed at his house while I was gone, you look at him like he hung the goddamn moon, and you never shut up about him.”

“And… you’re okay...with this?” 

“I have no problem with Derek unless you have a problem with Derek and  _ then  _ I’ll have a problem with Derek. So, Stiles, do you have a problem with Derek?”

“Yeah, Stiles, do you have a problem with me?” Derek asks, his hands full of warm coffee, the scent of caramel creamer wafting up onto the bed. 

“Not a chance.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty new to the teen wolf fandom so please if you would like to see more of this fandom from me or even if you just enjoyed this story leave a comment. Kudos are always appreciated too but comments make me giddy and motivated. Thank you for reading this!!
> 
> Much Love,  
> C


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